


Greeks Bearing Gifts

by valderys



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, If You Squint A Lot, Mostly Platonic, Pre-Relationship, Sid's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: Inspector Sullivan is not particularly renowned in Kembleford for his diligence or hard work. In fact the sobriquet 'lazy' could almost be applied to him. So how does he earn a top flight job in Special Branch? Sid Carter. That's who.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Greeks Bearing Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosencrantz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/gifts).

"Got you," said Sullivan - sorry 'Inspector La-di-da Sullivan to you, my son' - thought Sidney Carter in lightning quick time, even as he was pulling his hand back. He'd heard the phrase caught red-handed and intended to have no truck with it whatsoever. It was a pity that what you wished for was never what you actually got - at least where it came to him, who'd never had much luck in life.

"I don't know what you mean," he said quickly, in case it helped.

Sullivan raised a laconic eyebrow, as he eyed Sid, then Sid's little lock-up (not a hen house at all, ahem) and then finally the large box of black market cigarettes clearly poking out from under the straw. 

"So you can show me the receipt you have for these totally legitimate goods, then?" said Sullivan, sounding bored.

"Um. What goods?" said Sid, glibly, "I'm here for a couple of eggs, just as Farmer Lewis has said I could take from time to time."

"Really?" said Sullivan in disbelief, "That's what you're going with? And these are what - chopped liver?" He poked the cigarettes with his toe.

"I didn't touch 'em. Nothing to do with me, guv'nor," said Sid cheerfully, thinking he could totally get away with this, even if Sullivan had popped up from nowhere like a bloody crow at a funeral and nearly given him a heart attack.

"So if I was to take these back to the police station, where they would languish in evidence for literally _years_, waiting for their rightful owner to come and collect them - with their receipt - getting older and more dry... You wouldn't be upset, then?" said Sullivan, like the bastard he was, eyeing Sid as he automatically reached for a fag and started lighting up, before realising it was his last one. Which was why he was here at the hen house (lock-up, dammit) in the first place.

"Careful," said Sullivan, "I wouldn't want to do you for arson as well."

Sid clicked his lighter closed, took a drag and was careful where he tapped his ash. On principle. The Law was an ass and Sullivan even more so.

"Look," Sullivan sounded weary, but then he always did, "I've better things to do than this, Carter. Sidney. Sid." 

That sounded promising.

"I just want a little information."

And there it was.

"So why didn't you say so," said Sid with a grin, nudging the cigarettes back under the straw, "Always happy to help Kembleford's finest."

He paused and looked the Inspector up and down, who didn't look more irritable than usual, but best to check...

"Unless you want me to spy on Father Brown - I won't do that. Wild horses couldn't get me to squeal. I'm mum as a church mouse. I'm a rock, I'm silent as the grave..."

Sullivan sighed heavily, but nothing more. "No need for your tender sensibilities to be offended. It's not him I'm interested in. I'm not touching the whole pack of you with a bargepole. Not even if you paid me overtime. I've learned my lesson."

He reached up and rubbed his chin. It made him look almost vulnerable, Sid thought, and then wanted to shake his head loose for even thinking that a bloody copper could remotely be considered human.

"Oh, that reminds me," said Sullivan, "I'll pay you."

Ooh, the magic words.

***

There's a saying, Sid thought, as he sucked up his beer, that was germaine to the situation. Now what was it? Oh yes - be bloody careful what you wish for.

Now you'd think he'd have nothing to complain about seeing as he was here, in his local, supping on a very fine pint, which he'd paid for with his very own money. Here he was with more cash to buy other pints in his pocket, and there might possibly be a nice pie and chips in his future, which Rosie the barmaid knew how to serve proper with extra gravy and a saucy wink. Now with all that to consider you'd think there wouldn't be a more contented soul in all the world than one Sidney Carter.

Sid took another pull and then sat back and rubbed his mouth. There was a clink and then a second pint landed in front of him, pushing aside the pile of paper and notebooks that littered the rest of the table. Sid looked up and was hard pushed not to groan. He knew a pity pint when he tasted one. Sergeant Goodfellow's eyes always twinkled, it was one of the reasons why he made such a good country copper - little old ladies fell over themselves to trust him. He could do fatherly with the local tearaways like nobody's business. But all Sid could see behind the twinkle was a certain amount of sympathetic laughter. And more work.

"Inspector Sullivan sent me for the latest," he said, blandly enough.

Oh yes, he and Goodfellow understood one another, alright. Butter wouldn't melt in that one's mouth, thought Sid darkly. He pushed aside the notebooks and reached for one of his many scattered scribbled-on sheets.

"'Course he did," muttered Sid, "Not that I've got anything better to do. Lady Felicia don't drive herself, after all. The Father doesn't get himself in trouble every other day of the week, oh no. My own business ventures just run themselves."

"You'd have to take that up with the Inspector," said Goodfellow, taking a pull of his own pint with obvious enjoyment. Oh yes, Sullivan wasn't one to let a bloke have a drink on duty, was he, unless it was himself. Well, it was no skin off Sid's nose if Goodfellow chose to wet his whistle, he was just the humble working man struggling to get by, supposedly the amateur, a member of the bleeding public, no less, so how come it was him who ended up in this position?

"So, are you going to take notes, or what?" asked Sid in irritation, staring at Goodfellow drinking his beer. If his day was going to be ruined, then Sid was all for passing the misery on.

It had been discovered early on in the 'arrangement' that no-one, but no-one, could read Sid's handwriting. Something to do with his lax schooling at the orphanage, he supposed. Given all the bunking off he did, it was a miracle he could read and write at all frankly. (Sid was carefully not thinking about the coaching he may have gotten from the Father and a certain Mrs McCarthy.) Either way, his 'reports' were sent back to him, with a verbal flea in the ear, and now Goodfellow took notes.

Sid cleared his throat, before his pitching his voice low. Wouldn't do to be overheard. "So the Mott brothers are thinking of opening up their garage to more than a little MOT fiddling. Seems they want to start a chop shop for stolen vehicles in addition to their other activities. But they're idiots, if you ask me, it shouldn't be hard to do a spot check inspection and catch them in the act if you give it a week or two. Now then - Betty Philips used to be an independent working girl, her patch is around the Victoria park bandstand, but she's got herself a pimp, and he seems to be a nasty piece of work. Name of Mac. Real name Rory McAllister. He's going to want to start expanding his stable and the girls may start turning up with more than bruises if you know what I mean. So keep an eye on them, right? Oh yes, and there's a new rag'n'bone man in town, named Harold Slow, but he goes by Blind 'Arry. Word is he'll take away anything, legal or otherwise, no questions asked, and even less if you give him a bottle of whisky along with his payment. I'd say put him on the payroll, 'cos he'll hear all sorts, but you can't trust him not to blab when he's pissed, so - up to you."

He took a breath and leaned back in his chair. Goodfellow just waggled his eyebrows in a way Sid chose to interpret as complimenting a job well done. Sid scowled at him. At the rate this was going Sid could swear _he_ was running that stupid police station, not Sullivan at all. Now wasn't that a bloody irony.

***

There was a knock on the door of his caravan.

This was an unusual enough occurrence that Sid found himself tensing, even though he didn't owe anybody anything. His bookie was happy with him, the Father had recently cleared up that little business with the Owl of Minerva and Sid felt he was due a nice break.

Although probably not as much of one as the bloke at the door could do with. Sid eyed Inspector Sullivan warily. What on earth did he want? Admittedly, Sid hadn't been keeping up with his 'information' in as timely a manner as he had previously, but surely Sullivan couldn't have noticed, never mind cared, given all the conspiracies, false murder allegations and attempts on his life that he'd been dealing with - not to mention having to actually ask Father Brown for help. Come to think of it, the Inspector was looking more tired than usual, and his suit was not as spick and span as Sid was used to expecting.

"Can I come in?" asked Sullivan and that was rare enough and surprising enough that Sid was nodding before he'd really consciously thought it through. And then he had the Inspector looming at him and far too close, in too small a space, that was supposed to be his and safe. Sid could smell a woodsy cologne, even, and then had a minor panic attack over what the Inspector could smell in return. Awkward did not begin to cover it...

He gestured at the one chair in desperation and then perched on the edge of his bed, himself.

Abruptly, Sullivan said, "Look, I've come to say goodbye."

Which boggled Sid anew. After all, whatever... banter they may occasionally share while on cases, it wasn't like they were friends. Were they?

"Oh yeah?" said Sid, bewildered, "What, they finally giving you retirement?"

Sullivan rolled his eyes. "A promotion. Top secret and hush hush. Recruited to Special Branch - investigating treason and terrorist threats." There was a thin thread of pride there, under the exhaustion.

"If it's so secret, why are you telling me, then?" asked Sid, finally, still baffled.

And watched a thing he never thought he'd see - the Inspector blushing, only slightly, a little pink about the ears, but still. Reluctantly, he said, "Because the reason why they want me, in particular, why they were even looking at me, is my reputed expertise in intelligence gathering. Apparently my reports on the local criminal scene have been impressive." There was a pregnant silence for a second or so. "So I decided I ought to say... thank you."

Sid couldn't help it. He snorted. It might be less than respectful (not that he was very po-faced on his best days) but it was that or laugh in Sullivan's face.

"What? You really got the nod because of little old me? Who'd have thought it, eh? A 'career criminal' like me, who'd never amount to anything. That's what you thought, right? That's what you've always thought..." Sid trailed off, struck anew by the irony. "That's bonkers, that is. Just mad."

"Well," said Sullivan, who seemed uncomfortable, but only in that stuffed shirt way he had when any kind of emotion might be called for. Or an apology. "I just thought you should know your efforts have not gone unappreciated. Sergeant Goodfellow speaks very highly of you."

"Oh well, if _Sergeant Goodfellow_ thinks that..." The hilarity of the situation was rapidly catching up with Sid. He bit his lip trying to control himself.

"I just wanted to say," said Sullivan, distantly, "I just wanted to say - I'm leaving for London in the morning. And if you ever felt you wanted more... I mean if you are ever at a loose end..." He seemed to give up and met Sid's eyes properly for the first time in this bizarre conversation. "I could get you a job."

There was another silence then. Sid was too overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all and Sullivan looked like he'd managed to emote all he could for one day.

In those few seconds Sid couldn't help but think about it though, really think about it. He'd have to leave Kembleford behind, of course, where he was a big fish in a small pond, or at least a well-known and knowledgeable fish, for the Big Smoke, where he knew no-one and no-one would have his back. All for the questionable job offer of a mostly antagonistic acquaintance. It didn't take much thought to realise it would be a mug's game. A total jump into the unknown. He'd be leaving all his friends behind - maybe not family, no, but as close as someone like Sid was ever likely to come. What on earth made Sullivan think that Sid would ever want to take a risk like that? He'd have to be desperate...

Sid cleared his throat and stood. Reflexively, Sullivan stood too.

"I appreciate the offer, but the answer's no," said Sid, "Kembleford's my home. But I wish you luck."

Sullivan gravely nodded at him. They were probably as close to equals in that moment as they'd ever been, marveled Sid. Then Sullivan offered his hand and Sid shook it. One last moment of too-solemn eye contact, a lightning fast brush of Sullivan's hand at Sid's neck, smoothing down his collar, and then he was gone, striding away down the lane. He didn't look back.

Sid's throat tingled, but he tried not to think about that. Just reminded himself that Sullivan only wanted another dogsbody to do all his work for him in London. That was all it was about. And think of all the free time Sid would have now - he'd finally get to relax once in a while. Have a smoke. Have a decent kip. Although cash flow might be tight for a bit... Still, everything could get back to normal at last.

But it didn't hurt that Sid had a... friend in a high place. Right? Just in case. That wasn't a bad thing. And maybe Sid might fancy a night out on the tiles one of these days, who could say? Take in a show. Visit a club. He might even pop in to see an old acquaintance or two. Maybe. Who knew what the future might bring?


End file.
